Eight Months, Four Days
by OneBlondeWeirdo
Summary: Bellarke AU. Eight months and four days after their breakup, Bellamy gets a worrying phone call from Clarke that could change everything. Rated T for mild swearing and minor mentions of violence, but mostly because I'm paranoid.


**This one's very Bellarke-y. I was watching a T.V. segment the other day at the gym and there was a lady on the segment who was explaining that, after she was involved in a shooting, she and her caring ex-boyfriend ended up getting back together and (later) getting married. So, being the obsessed fan that I am, I decided to write an AU fanfic about a similar situation with Bellamy and Clarke. Here it is!**

They had broken up eight months ago. (Eight months and four days, he reminded himself, but who was counting?) It had been over some silly, ridiculous argument that had gotten out of hand—she had believed that he should respect the relationship that Octavia had begun with Lincoln, while he'd thought it a much better idea to introduce Lincoln's face to his fists.

There was shouting and screaming and even some glass breaking (which was normal for them—the neighbors had been told not to call the police unless they heard actual gunshots), but unlike their arguments, this had ended with Clarke gathering up her belongings and storming out. She hadn't come back.

"Bellamy, man, you've gotta move on," Murphy was telling him. Bellamy let out a huff and sipped his coffee, shaking his head.

"I have moved on. I 'moved on' with Cassie, and with Echo," he growled. "Why does everyone think that I haven't moved on?"

"Because—" Murphy started, but Bellamy wasn't done.

"And even if I haven't, why is it everyone's damn business? I can do what I want, _when_ I want. Got it?" Apparently, the glare he was giving his tablemate was much scarier than intended, because Murphy just gulped and nodded slowly, eyes darting away as he tried to come up with something else to say.

Fortunately, he was saved by Bellamy's phone ringing.

"Crap. What is it this time?" he grumbled, pulling it out and hitting a few buttons on the screen, then putting it to his ear. "Who is this?"

"Bellamy?" _Oh. Oh, no._

"What do you want, Clarke?" he asked, standing up and walking just outside the coffee shop he'd been sitting in. Murphy's wide eyes and shocked expression were too much for him to want to handle right now. The question came out harsher than he'd intended. He felt momentarily guilty… until he remembered that _she_ had been the one to walk out of _his_ life, and his anger was back with a vengeance.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to call you," she whispered. He briefly wondered why she was speaking in such low tones, but didn't have time to really ponder it before the words were spilling out of his mouth.

"Why the hell would you call me right now? Do you even know—?"

"Bellamy!" she hissed urgently, and something about her tone made him stop. He felt something akin to worry begin to grow at an alarming pace, and he had to remind himself that he didn't care for this girl, not anymore. Not after what she did. "I just—as much as I'd love to discuss what happened between us and how much you hate me, I really need you to call 911, okay?"

Well, there went the 'ignoring the worry' agenda. Bellamy's mind went into full-blown panic mode.

"Clarke, where the hell are you?"

"I'm in a movie theater… the one on 9th and Main Street. There's a guy with a gun, and he shot someone. I'm trying to stop the bleeding, but… Bellamy, he won't last long. I called you on accident, I don't know, I think it was instinct… it doesn't matter now." He could hear the panic creeping into her tone, as well. "Just call Emergency Services, okay? Tell them everything I just told you."

"Fine. Works for me." He wanted to be short with her, wanted to punish her for the pain she put him through, but knew that this was not the time. Instead, he allowed himself to soften, just a bit, and try to console the woman he had once loved (and still loved, if he was being honest with himself). "Clarke, it's all going to be alright," he said, and even though he'd never been the compassionate-and-comforting type, he actually felt he was doing pretty well. "You know that, right?"

"I hope so," she said, voice cracking. "And Bellamy?"

"Yeah?"

"If I don't end up making it out of here, I just… I want you to know that…" her voice trailed off, like she was unsure of what to say. Or maybe, he realized with a rising send of alarm, maybe the gunman was coming toward her and she was trying to make even less noise than she had been before.

"I know, Clarke," he replied softly, "me too."

The line went dead, and Bellamy found his fingers practically tripping over themselves as he rushed to hit the keys to call EMS.

And then, since he'd always been the master of great timing, Murphy had to walk over to him, coffee in hand.

"This is why no one thinks you're moving on, Bellamy," he said mock-casually. He leaned up against the brick wall of the shop, looking every bit like the arrogant twat that he was. "You get a call from her, and suddenly everything else in your life is put on hold. It's ridiculous, man. You need to get la—"

He was cut off abruptly when Bellamy's knuckles came into contact with his face—hard.

"Shut up, Asshole," he snarled, nursing his (now quite possibly broken) knuckles as Murphy stumbled backward and brought a hand up to his very bloody nose. And then he called 911.

"This is Bellamy Blake. I'd like to report a crime in progress at the theater on 9th and Main…"

He drove over to the theater as soon as he hung up the phone, breaking nearly every speed limit on the way. He didn't care.

The ambulances and police cars, with their sirens and flashing lights, had already arrived. At any other time he would have gone over and introduced himself to the Captain. He would have told him that he was looking to be an officer, and then politely asked for tips on how to best present himself when looking for a job. Now, though, he ignored everything except the glint of blond hair that he saw near the furthest ambulance. Then he ran.

She looked okay. Not good, of course—she had just been involved in a traumatic experience, after all—but she didn't appear to be severely wounded. There was a graze on her arm, likely caused by a bullet, but it was being stitched up by a male paramedic while Clarke stubbornly insisted that she was fine, and that the medic should move on to someone else.

"I'm serious, I can do this myself at home," she was arguing. "Have you checked on Charlotte yet? I think she was going into shock after her mother was shot."

"Ma'am, one of my colleagues is checking on your friend. I need you to sit still, alright?"

"I think you should listen to him," Bellamy interjected. Both heads turned toward him, and he shrugged. "Just an idea. Ignore me if you want to, Princess."

She smiled, and a blush crept up her neck at the familiar nickname that he'd given her. God, how he'd missed that during these past eight months (and four days). Abby Griffin was an up-and-coming councilwoman and doctor in the town they lived in, and it seemed that she was on track to become mayor. The name 'Princess' had seemed fitting for her daughter, and after a few times of him using it in reference to her (and her giving him feisty glares in response), it had stuck.

The paramedic finished his work stitching up Clarke's arm and, after strict instructions for her to not overuse the limb, gathered his bag of supplies and went to check on other victims. Alone with the person he'd been carefully avoiding for the past few months, Bellamy suddenly realized that he had nothing to say.

Despite the way his stubborn mind persistently protested the idea, by now he had realized that he'd done some wrong. He had been pigheaded and ignorant—and, although she hadn't been the one to leave, he'd been the one that hadn't gone after her. Thinking back, he was able to recognize that he'd been upset that she'd gotten so involved in his family's affairs, but in reality he should have been thankful that he'd had a girlfriend who actually cared about his sister almost as much as he did.

He knew what he had to do, and he didn't like it. But Clarke was worth it.

"I screwed up," he burst out.

"I shouldn't have left," she replied.

"I should've chased you. I'm sorry I didn't." There was another semi-awkward pause, before he continued, "You were right about Lincoln. He's treating her well." She smiles, and he takes delight in the fact that her caring heart still has room for his little sister's wellbeing and happiness.

"I'm glad." She hesitated, before adding, "I shouldn't have given up so easily, and I-I'm sorry, too."

And then his lips were crashing against hers. They would worry about the details later, and he'd probably punch Murphy (again) later, too. But right now, despite the fact that they were sitting in the back of an ambulance after a theater shooting, it was one of the happiest moments of his life. Clarke was alive and mostly well. There would be scars, both physical and emotional, for both of them, because of this experience. They had wasted months over a petty argument that could have been solved if either of them had possessed better communicative skills. But in the end, everything had worked out for the best, hadn't it?

Eight months and four days later, at their wedding, he realized that it had.

 **If this is any good, please review. I love constrictive criticism, and I want to know if anyone actually liked this :)**

 **Thanks for reading!**


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